


Grist

by thingswithwings



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV), Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Dildos, F/F, Fisting, Hatesex, Post-Apocalypse, fandom march madness inspired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 08:11:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1297696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thingswithwings/pseuds/thingswithwings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a long moment, under Regina's hands, she doesn't exist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grist

**Author's Note:**

> Written as part of my annual wave of femslash crossover fic inspired by fandom_march_madness! Abbie Mills and Regina Mills were up against each other, and c'mon, they're both too awesome to root for one of them. Instead I had to root for them fucking each other. It's how I defuse the tension of them competing.
> 
> Fic is set in, like, Sleepy Hollow season 5. Just go with it. Character death is offscreen, only mentioned.
> 
> Title because I had to.

When Abbie comes, Regina doesn't let her breathe, doesn't let her blink her way back to awareness, doesn't let her _move_ ; Regina's hand in her is hard and forceful and untiring, and Abbie clenches around it again, and again, thrown violently into another orgasm right on the heels of the first. She scrabbles at the mattress, throws her head back and regrets baring her throat even as she cries out, and her vision blurs, and her whole body, she thinks, washes away with the pleasure of it.

For a long moment, under Regina's hands, she doesn't exist.

Regina can shoot fireballs from that fist, can reach into your chest with it and rip out your heart. When she withdraws it from Abbie's body, it feels like mercy.

"Had enough, Miss Mills?" Regina asks, not at all sweetly. Abbie snarls and gathers her energy enough to grab Regina by the hair, to get her hands on her shoulders and flip them over. She might be small, but Regina's only got an inch or two on her, and she doesn't have the strength or training that Abbie does.

Regina's soft, in fact. She uses magic, not physical power, and if she's ever had calluses from rough wear or strong shoulders from hard work, the signs of them have long since disappeared from her body.

Abbie flips them over and it feels good, on the heels of that hard orgasm, to exert her power, to push against Regina's soft skin and inviting curves and pin her to the bed. 

"Not even close," she grits out, and spreads Regina's legs, grabbing up the long glass dildo and sliding it in to her, no warning, no foreplay. Regina's wet already. Regina's always wet for this, wet from fucking her, wet for the gleam of disdain that Abbie knows she can't keep out of her eyes.

She can't help but bend her head and bite, at the dark brown nipples, the elegant curve of her throat, at every perfectly shaved soft curve of her body. Abbie's own body is rough, she knows, scarred; from the Horseman's axe, from the blades of the Legions, from the gunshot wounds she's taken over the years. She's conscious of the rough skin on her shoulder, where Regina's manicured fingers stroke too gently, a reminder of the time she was tied by the ankle and dragged by one of the lesser demons. She's proud of it, too, as a symbol of her refusal to die, and a memory of the glorious wrath she and Ichabod brought down on that enclave. As Regina's red-tipped fingernails dig in to the scar tissue, she hisses in pleasure that wishes it were pain.

"Harder," Regina demands, from behind gritted teeth, and if she thinks she's the one calling the shots here she's got another thing coming. Abbie slows down, dragging the glass in and out of her, shoving hard up against her clit and then backing off again. Regina loves the material, maybe loves the way the glass feels inside her, because she goes wild for it whenever Abbie brings it out. Her slick is dripping down the dildo, wetting Abbie's wrist and fingers until she starts to lose her grip.

It's hard to do left handed anyway, what with the two missing fingers, so she shifts position and uses her right instead. She keeps it slow, rough but teasing, hard but not hard enough. She knows what Regina wants, and she's not going to give her the punishment until she's desperate for it.

"Can't be anything but contrary, can you, Mills?" Regina pants. "Can't just give me what I ask for."

"If you had what you want, you'd be gone, and we'd be down a witch for the cause," Abbie replies, using her free hand to pinch hard at Regina's nipples. Regina's feet clench and push against the sheets, an involuntary reaction that she can't quite hide. Abbie grins. "Even so, you're lucky I keep you around at all."

"You couldn't live without me," Regina spits. "You and your little world, you're only here because – of – me – " Her words are coming slower now, huffed out on each panting breath, and now Abbie lets herself go a little faster, shove the glass into her harder. It's solid and sturdy, and it won't break despite the seeming fragility of the material.

"I'd kill you myself if I had to, and damn my world," Abbie says, and at that Regina gasps and stills, clenching against the dildo and shaking as Abbie rocks it inside her, as Abbie presses down on her clit and pushes her into another wave of orgasm. She knows her body so well, now. It's been months, she thinks, since they started fucking like this, in tents on the edges of battlefields, rutting like animals in the mud. Abbie doesn't like it. But she's growing to need it.

She watches Regina's dark hair move as she arches her back, watches Regina's red lips part and her thighs tremble, and she can't bring herself to care too much.

Abbie stops when Regina stops, because as much as she's sacrificed in this war, as many of her principles as she's abandoned, she can't quite tamp down the urge to be kind, to make Regina feel good. Almost against her will, she runs one hand down her thigh, soothing, and for a moment Regina blinks up at her in surprise. Then the moment's over, and Regina closes her eyes. Maybe she's being kind, too, for once.

"Lovely, Miss Mills, as always," Regina sighs, collapsing down onto the mattress, for all the world as if it were a king-sized bed draped in the richest fabrics and furs, rather than a lumpy pallet covered in threadbare sheets. 

"So what are you still doing in my tent?" Abbie asks. She pushes herself to her feet and turns her back. It's not a smart move, tactically, but she finds herself doing it time and time again, giving Regina the chance to kill her, take her heart and control her. But if Regina really wants to do that, she has plenty of other opportunities.

"Nothing at all," Regina says softly. Abbie rinses her hands in the water basin and listens to Regina putting her clothes back on. Abbie doesn't get dressed, preferring to wait until she's gone.

Then, suddenly, Regina _is_ at her back, her hands brushing the ticklish short hairs at the nape of her neck. Her touch is entirely unlike the touch she offered fifteen minutes ago; instead of being hard and unforgiving, it's soft and . . . well. If not forgiving, then at least hesitant. 

Her fingers are followed by her lips, as she leans in to press a kiss against the skin there. Abbie allows herself to close her eyes on the feeling, taking in that small spark of gentleness, of care, whether that's what Regina means by it or not. Unaccountably, she feels herself tearing up, even though she hasn't cried in well over a year, didn't cry when Morales died under the claws of the hellhounds or when they'd lost New York.

"You should be easier on yourself, Miss Mills," Regina breathes, and for once there's no trace of anger or irony in her voice. She pauses, for a long time, and then kisses her again, in the same spot, just that chaste press of her lips. Abbie feels a tear slip down her cheek.

"You're not what I am. You're . . . something else. Something better. It's hard to see you on the days when you forget that."

Abbie doesn't turn around, and she doesn't respond. Instead, she reaches back with one hand, and for a moment she brushes her fingers against Regina's, a glancing, almost accidental touch, as innocent and full of meaning as their fucking had been devoid of it.

"Don't forget that," Regina whispers, and if she sounds desperate on her own behalf, as well as Abbie's, Abbie can probably forgive that. Abbie finds Regina's ghosting fingers again and grips hard, trying to communicate through touch the feeling that wells up in her chest, huge and inarticulate.

Then Regina's gone, and Abbie concentrates on finding her pants, on rubbing the grit out of her eyes, on reading the reports that Ichabod dropped off earlier. They can't manage a frontal assault on the Legion, not with their numbers, but that doesn't mean there isn't hope.

As she works late into the night, buoyed by guttering candlelight and the failing warmth of her tiny space heater, she can still feel the place on the back of her neck that Regina kissed, a tiny tingling mark among the scars. 

She smiles softly, and readies herself for war.


End file.
